


Balm in Gilead

by SkepticalBeliever



Series: Balm in Gilead [2]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-03
Updated: 2016-06-03
Packaged: 2018-07-12 02:04:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7080187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkepticalBeliever/pseuds/SkepticalBeliever
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vaguely, Clarke registers Kane murmuring to Abby about giving her and Bellamy some privacy and the pair returning to their room, closing the door behind them with a quiet click. Bellamy’s hands are at the forefront of her awareness as they absently stroke up and down her spine soothingly. She cards her fingers through his curls, pushing away the horrific memory of him in her nightmare and savoring the feeling of him safe and secure by her side. He smells of pine, earth, and salt, a heady scent that she has discovered is unique to Bellamy and intrinsically makes her think of the word “home.”</p>
<p>“You’re okay,” he whispers. “You’re safe.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Balm in Gilead

**Author's Note:**

> This is a companion piece to "Sorrow for the Lost Lenore" but can be read independently of it. 
> 
> There are some violent descriptions in the beginning paragraphs. You have been warned. 
> 
> Without further ado, please read and enjoy.

_“On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly I implore—_

_Is there—_ is _there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”_ –Edgar Allan Poe, “The Raven”

* * *

 

_The restraint around her neck digs into her skin, carving grooves that mark her for what she is: helpless. The punctures on her chest from the scalpel sting with every labored breath she takes. Her wrists ache from pulling against the cuffs. However, none of that pain compares to the shock of her mother’s calculating expression and the grim set of her mouth as she places pressure on the newest puncture she inflicted._

_“I told you,” Abby says, turning her face behind her towards no one that Clarke could see, “her friends are her weakness.” Abby’s eyes, normally full of warmth and affection for her daughter, are cold, shrewd, and borderline predatory, and Clarke, transfixed with horror, cannot look away. “Start with Bellamy Blake.”_

_He materializes before her, inky curls disheveled, face smattered with freckles and ash, eyes impossibly soft as they meet her gaze. His limbs are outstretched, tied to posts on either side, and his shirt is torn down the middle, exposing a blank canvas of flesh for her mother’s scalpel and Ontari’s sword. “Clarke…” He murmurs her name like a prayer and fresh tears spring to her eyes._

_“What’s the pass phrase, Clarke?” her mother asks again._

_Clarke gapes, petrified, lips trembling as she holds back a sob. At her silence, Abby nods to Ontari, who grazes the tip of her sword along Bellamy’s abdomen. He squeezes his eyes and clamps his lips shut, but his pained groan still echoes throughout throne room._

_“I told you that you worried about him more,” an impossible voice whispers against the shell of her ear. Clarke’s attention snaps to the source of the voice and her eyes widen when she sees Lexa standing before her, a warrior goddess untouched by time or strife. “I tried to warn you: love is weakness. I paid the price for it, and now he will too.”_

_“You can stop this, Clarke. All you have to do is tell us the pass phrase and we’ll let him go.”_

_“Don’t,” Bellamy grits out, wincing as Ontari digs her blade deeper into his flesh._

_“You have to choose, Clarke,” Lexa says firmly. “Save your people, or save Bellamy. You can’t have both. People like us never can.”_

_The tears fall freely down her cheeks as she struggles fruitlessly against her restraints. “Mom. Mom, please. Stop this. You’re hurting him.” Her voice comes out as a croak, grief and terror barely reined under her control._

_“We’re not hurting him, Clarke._ You _are.” Ontari strokes the blade across his chest, almost lovingly, and the strangled cry that escapes his lips is like a knife piercing her heart._

_“Please!”_

_“Clarke,” Bellamy breathes, “it’s okay. It has to be done.”_

_“I can’t…”_ Can’t betray my people. Can’t save you. Can’t lose you. _The words tumble over and over in Clarke’s mind, the weight of her choice pressing down upon her. Her breathing hitches and verges on hysterics._

_“Last chance, Clarke,” Abby states. She gestures to Ontari, whose sword is impatiently poised, pointing towards Bellamy’s chest, the tip anxious to plunge into his heart. The false Heda turns and fixes Clarke in her gaze in an almost serpentine fashion, a smirk slowly blooming across her lips._

_Clarke shakes her head in mute horror._

_Abby’s eyes swivel off to the side for a moment, as if transfixed by some unseen entity. Then, she glances sharply at Ontari, nodding her head once. “Do it.”_

_Ontari takes as much pleasure in piercing his heart as she did maiming his flesh. The sword enters him slowly, twisting to the tune of his gurgled cries. His eyes widen as she yanks the blade out of him, blood flowing freely from his mouth and his wounds._

_The shriek that rips through Clarke splits her ears and leaves her throat raw, Bellamy’s name tumbling from her lips._

* * *

 

Clarke awakens with a jolt, sheets tangled around her legs, chest aching, fingers trembling, and tears streaming down her cheeks. Her mother sits beside her, stroking hair away from her face and shushing her with nonsense murmurs. Kane stands in the doorway of his and Abby’s adjoining room, watching, as if uncertain where he fits in this moment.

“Breathe, Clarke. Everything’s fine,” Abby whispers.

It is not fine, not really. They are months away from another apocalypse, food is scarce, and, somehow, everyone seems to know that the surest way to destroy her is to threaten her best friend, that he was her weakness. However, _technically_ , in this moment, her mother is right; there is no immediate threat on their lives, they are safely tucked away in the walls of Arkadia, and the people she loves are, for the time being, alive. So, she allows her mother to envelop her in her arms, as she used to when she was a child, and rock her as she struggles to gain control over her breathing.

“It felt so real,” she sniffs, furiously scrubbing away the tears on her cheeks. She focuses on the ceiling, willing her distress to dissipate; she does not want to alarm her mother or Kane any further, nor does she wish to discuss the horror that plagued her mind. Still, she trembles in her mother’s arms as Abby holds her tighter and murmurs comforting nothings in her ears.

A soft knock on the door interrupts the family. Kane clears his throat and mutters about answering it. Clarke closes her eyes and leans against Abby’s shoulder, releasing a stuttering breath.

“I heard a scream,” a low, gravelly voice says from behind the door. “Is everything okay?”

“We’re fine. Clarke just had a…troubling dream.”

A pause, and then, “May I see her?”

Clarke sits up, trying to peer around Kane. He turns back and glances at Abby with questioning eyes. Abby nods her agreement, “I think it’s safe to let him in, Marcus.”

Bellamy pads into the room and takes her in. His warm gaze, raking over her tangled curls, swollen eyes, and chapped lips, softens with concern. Clarke pulls away from her mother, reaching out to him. He heeds her silent call and strides towards her, sitting on her other side and tentatively taking her hand in his.

“Hey,” he murmurs, stroking her palm with his thumb, “what’s wrong?”

Clarke meets his steady gaze; his eyes unfathomably warm even in the bleaching light of the moon streaming through her shades. There are scars on his cheeks from battles past and Octavia’s fists, but no blood or bruises mar his face. His palms are rough from the constant toil of life on the ground, but they are not caked with mud and grime. For one brief moment in her life, Bellamy Blake, sitting beside her, holding her hand in his, appears whole. Clarke shudders out a breath and envelops her arms around him, pulling him close, and blinking back relieved tears when he returns the embrace.

Vaguely, Clarke registers Kane murmuring to Abby about giving her and Bellamy some privacy and the pair returning to their room, closing the door behind them with a quiet _click_. Bellamy’s hands are at the forefront of her awareness as they absently stroke up and down her spine soothingly. She cards her fingers through his curls, pushing away the horrific memory of him in her nightmare and savoring the feeling of him safe and secure by her side. He smells of pine, earth, and salt, a heady scent that she has discovered is unique to Bellamy and intrinsically makes her think of the word “home.”

“You’re okay,” he whispers. “You’re safe.”

Clarke pulls away, shaking her head. “It wasn’t about me.”

His brows furrow, considering. “Do you want to talk about it?” he asks finally, his hand finding hers once more. She shakes her head again, emphatic, and he gives her hand a squeeze. “Okay. What do you need?”

She searches his face, for what, she is unsure, but finds nothing but compassion and love. Finally, she says, “ _Stay_.” Her fingers lace with his and his lips part wordlessly. “Please,” she adds, mistaking his silence for misgivings.

With his free hand, he brushes away a few stray locks that had fallen over her eyes. Her skin tingles where his fingers brush. “Okay. But only if you promise to try to sleep. We both need our rest.”

He leans back on the narrow bed, patting the space beside him. Clarke curls around him, her head resting on his chest. His heartbeat stutters beneath her ear and then picks up, thrumming a quick but steady beat. “Do you mind?” she asks, looking up at him.

His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows before replying “no” and humming a low lullaby softly in her ear. She closes her eyes, allows his melody to carry her off to pleasanter thoughts, and begins to drift. Just as she is on the precipice of sleep, she dimly registers the cool press of his lips on her forehead.

* * *

 

She awakens before he does, dawn filtering through her shades and casting shadows across the planes of his face. His lips are parted slightly and his brows are relaxed. _He looks so young_ , she notes. Carefully, she traces his cheek with her fingers, following the line of his jaw down to the dimple on his chin and back again. She maps his freckles and his scars, each a mark she could not prevent. _This one is from Dax, this one is from Kane, and these are all Octavia’s…_

“What are you doing?” Bellamy grumbles, eyes still closed.

Heat floods her cheeks. “Sorry,” she mumbles, pulling her hand away, “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

He cracks an eye open and raises a brow, skeptical. “What are you thinking about, Clarke? Really?”

She grimaces. _He always knows_ , she thinks. She swallows a hard lump in her throat and says, “They wanted to…torture…you. In Polis. To get me to talk. That’s what my nightmare was about.”

They have not spoken about those awful hours when everything had gone horribly wrong. There has not been time and, frankly, it seemed irrelevant, considering their current circumstances. He did not need to know how the air had been sucked from her lungs when her mother looked her in the eye and said, “Start with Bellamy Blake,” or that this weakness had been exposed, long before ALIE, by Roan, by Lexa. Yet, lying in his arms, counting every scar and aching for each one as if they were her own, gives her pause. How many more will he sustain before their time comes? How much more must he endure? Perhaps he ought to know that it matters to her, that _he_ matters to her.

“I know that it didn’t actually happen,” she continues, rambling, “that it wasn’t real. But…someday…that _could_ happen. And that terrifies me.”

Bellamy gapes at her, lips parted and eyes wide. Blinking, he whispers, “I don’t understand. Why me? Why would they want to use me?”

Her heart clenches at the sight of his doubt. He searches her face, hope mingled with uncertainty written plainly in his features. Clarke worries her lip, deciding. “Lexa used to tell me that love was weakness. I guess ALIE decided you were mine.”

He swallows thickly. “And was she right?” His voice is barely more than a breath.

She feels his grip on her waist tighten infinitesimally, feels his pulse quicken under her cheek. She could brush off Lexa’s accusations, ignore Roan’s knowing smirks, and flat out deny her mother’s well-intended questions, but she cannot lie to him. Not to Bellamy. She buries her face in his chest and nods slowly.

“Clarke?” Bellamy’s hand cups her cheek and tilts her face to look at him. His lips curve into hesitant, hopeful smile. He guides her face towards his and presses his forehead against hers. His sigh is exultant.

Tears prick her eyes as she returns his smile, shy, terrified, and joyful all at once. She huffs a laugh.

“You’re mine, too, by the way,” he murmurs, his nose brushing against hers.

She nods once more, fully understanding his meaning, and sighs.

Tangled in each other’s arms, emotions laid bare and vulnerable for the other to see, does not feel like a weakness, for once. Instead, it feels like relief.

It feels like strength.

**Author's Note:**

> I suck at endings...
> 
> The title and epigraph are both taken from Edgar Allan Poe's "The Raven." Basically, I have been obsessed with "Nevermore" since it aired and have been particularly interested in how they paralleled Bellamy and Clarke's journey of grief and healing to the lines in the poem. I hope I did my inspirations justice.
> 
> Kudos and comments are always appreciated! Please let me know what you think. :)
> 
> [my tumblr](http://skepticalbeliever1.tumblr.com/)


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